From Somewhere
by chionodoxa
Summary: 【SI/OC?/Warring States Era】With another time and long long ago, there is a child and a sky that doesn't last for long. [status: ongoing]
1. 00: Through the Glass Window

**disclaimer**: I do not own Naruto or Naruto Shippuden. c:

**warnings**: Overload of imagery, probably crowded format, angst, probable ruining of Japanese culture, inevitable canon divergence, possible OoCness, AU, use of OCs, artistic license abuse, etc. **  
><strong>**summary**: Why was it always so hard to cry, to die, to say, just once, "I'm sorry." It doesn't feel right, it isn't what she wants to say, but there isn't anything else other than apologies and what happens after. "Just stop," she cries, the tears mixing with the bitter rain, "Please, stop holding me down and let me free." She is the leaf of red fallen into waters, and she is drowning deeper where there is no ground.  
><strong>chapter summary<strong>: A thousand million horrible endings and all the not quite beginnings one would think; she has always remembered them all. This is the world, many years later. No one has changed.

**notes**: I have just found this on my old collection of random ficlets that I had drafted back with a lot of other SI inspired ones. So. I guess I'll just publish it and see if anything happens...? Here's the old note I had written out in like March 2013: I didn't dare try a canon character story first. OoC characters..._ everywhere_. Not that there aren't canon characters in this, but as main characters...Anyhow, please R&R what you think~! ^^ Thank you!

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><p>From Somewhere | <strong>00: Through The Glass Window<strong> | Naruto & Naruto Shippuden © Masashi Kishimoto

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><p>...<p>

「プロローグ」  
>"Prologue"<br>((_through the glass window_))

...

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.

.

**T**he oceantide sang a different harmony than the one of the rivers and the raindrops.

It is a loud, roaring thing. It screams and is made up of many many voices, drowning in each other, made of salty tears and swirling into depths of darkness. Light taunts the ghosts below the surface, beckoning them closer and closer. Waves run towards the shore, the land, scrambling and crawling and always, always slipping amongst the sand.

Sometimes the water sinks into it, falling farther and deeper, burying themselves into the ground. All the way into the rock, perhaps. But it will be taken by the heat of the sun, turning into chaotic clouds and only contributing to bitter cold snow and lightning strike alike.

The water will always return to sea.

Rivers run far, run fast, leaping high, reaching and hungry for sunlight and air. River is one, They twist and turn and dance. Clean and pure; happy. Rainfall goes upon the earth below, returning to their home, almost desperate in their descent. Rainfall is calm, steady, and slow. They cry and laugh and play.

But they will return to sea. River will end there. Rain will fall there, or maybe they will fare better, going through land then river then _sea_. But they will return. They will be one with the others, ripped from identity other than _me and you_. There are no winners.

There is no winning when there is no one to be the one losing. (He never understood. That's alright. He never will, anyways.)

You can say this is where I am, many lives apart, names changing and look different every time. On the whims of man, this is where the world is, about 100 decades from me to you.

I am borne to the ones of rippling tides. The sons and daughters of change, of wind, fire, and water, of strength of heart and blood.

I am the riptide in the midst of waves.

I am a wave that has returned, comes close with memories of sinking despair and dreams, the memories of being nothing but who everyone else creates, the memories—

—of being one with many.

I am absolutely wrong.

.

.

.

In the beginning there was me. In the end there was you.

This was always meant to be your kingdom on water and blood and prophecy with swirling ripples calling from different ends of the vast world. This was always meant to be your story with a few pages left unsaid, wrinkled and worn and recounted over and over again.

Most of the names written in the sands will be washed away by the lapping tides of time, forgotten in the churning sea where the world awaits the arrival of the great.

Who would remember all of mankind's smaller imperfections when they simply drown and sink to the darkness of the whirling tides?

This world ruled by humans is made up of fragile memories, fragile fears, fragile desires that end with death, because life is not finite, is not mortal, is not meant to last.

But is this world mine or yours?

I've always known.

.

.

.

She wakes to a spacious room, spartan in decoration, dark faded ink lined invisible against the walls and floors; a wild, controlled tremble beneath her fingertips at the sight. An energy once indefinitely small and insignificant before, really, in a world where there was electricity and oil and well polished minds. Nerves, adrenaline, happiness. All names, labels, titles for this she remembers as chakra.

Chakra. Asian in original name. But this energy is twisted, large amounts, though revered, changing the body to its will, granting strange colours and shapes, different abilities and gifting blood with world essence. It is a fragment of information of many lost through the battling of different souls in different circumstances, between human will and world resolve.

Only a remnant of forevers. But she makes due.

Riptides are always beaten back by the greater waves. This is no difference.

Her eyes are open, open, open. Figuratively and literally. There is a sharp intake of breath and air, before she exhales outwards.

The shaky laugh that echoes across the room is hysterical. It brings no one running for her.

That's okay, she thinks honestly. That's okay.

.

.

.

I cannot say that I am not human.

I have, only, forgotten how.

These people are living on blood itself, on the pure destruction the life inside themselves sings, and they laugh along to it's cry. It's a powerful moment, forever, when I live with these men and women, with red surrounding me and swirling fast. I am here in brackish waters.

Everyone is larger than me. But that is alright. It won't be for long...

...I am quite fond of drowning. Sinking dropping.

Falling.

.

.

.

In this deep blue there is something throwing things into this abyss from land.

Will you call this god? Will you call this destiny? Will you call this an illusion? They are all true. It exists, in every assumption, but there is no definition to it, like how you cannot call love or or happiness or madness or sin by the same morals each person has. A dreamer, really, who plays with inconsequential pieces and throws them near and far, is correct as well.

Leaves. They float, float and cause ripples, ringing themselves together. They will sink as they move too far towards the ocean, cause too much disturbance that brings them under.

Clouds. They fly above, soar and play and change with the breeze, until they condense and drop back down, down, down beneath the gaze of light.

Sand. They lie at the shoreline, and stay together by the bonds of tidewater. But then the sun will make them separate and get swept away.

Mist. They are in the middle, cold and hiding secrets as lesser ones melt into the void. In the end, you know, they will all fall before the sun's warmth.

Rocks. The greater they are, the faster they leave the surface to darkness. The better they are, the farthest they go as they skip across. Strength holds them, however, as waves crash against them. But they will be washed into dust and shadow.

There is more, countless items found and thrown as well. How far will this paper, this iron, this smoke, this ice run? How far, really, is the only question we may ever know of.

When this one (only one) casts ink, however, where will it spread?

Stupid questions. No one will answer them.

In this deep blue there is something throwing things into this abyss from land. That is all.

She knows. She forgets.

_We shall assume the one has cast water into the water. Water that falls into the rest and water that rises all the same_.

.

.

.

Human nature is to follow and lead at the same time. Human nature is to be molded by your surroundings, circumstance, spirit. Human nature is to be one of the wind, to wish for it to push you forward towards burning sunlight and calming moonlight.

I am a wanderer.

I am, no matter how much I have lost my way, only human.

"Onee!" My voice is strange, high pitched, loud, and cheerful to override the hum of chatter in the backdrop. "Onue!" My pronunciation is off, and with a put upon look on my face I reaffirm, "Oh-nnn-ey!"

This place is full of smiles; it is a nice beginning.

I smile as well.

It is a rueful smile.

.

.

.

She finds that her little island has laughter like phoenix song and tears. Healing. Bright. Warmth and heat and protection. Burning for very long and falling into ashes centuries later. Brilliant claret shades, calling for attention. Playful legends of their fire alone, of that unwavering will they carry.

Reincarnations of tempest squall is what she likes to call all these children. In her other tongue, of course; she hasn't quite caught the foreign words reminiscent to Chinese, and completely different from English. Sometimes she just likes her quiet. It is very unusual, she supposes, to her family.

(I am water borne to ink. Ink spreads. It sinks. It swirls like smoke, the last wisps of the ash, hot stone and dust, of the dying cinders and shadows of the phoenix people. It brings out every dark thing and lets it be, cleanses scars with flame and leaving behind the darkness in the screaming blue. But I am water and fire is my past (only ever there).

Their blood burns me into vapor. It is unclear if I will freeze and fall. It is unclear if I will be the spirit of wind. It is unclear if I will only drown again under the sun's light. It is so, very unclear if I— _human_ —will shine into colour with other ones.

I am unsure. I am always unsure.)

It is nothing to worry about, because I am only calm until the burning commences, in which I can say, that I will scream and shout as well. It is in my blood.

Blood bleeds and drips and soaks and maybe I am going to scream now.

.

.

.

Before I shatter the horizon, please—

The tears fall and drown and rise.

Like blood. Like fire. Like smoke. Like feelings that run out of air and dreams in the bright sky bright.

The rain is where I belong. The sky is where the rain is until it lets it go.

No one is there to catch fallen angels because true angels do not let themselves sink.

—I am alone and I have lost my wings.

.

.

.

I and the other children run like we are meant to do. Careless, bare feet skimming cold, smooth rock and words passed along like waterfalls.

This wide sea catches the sunset in it's reflection, a rippling one, an illusion it is trying to create. I cry along with the others, but it is for such different reasons. We are sometimes too bright, so much that with our hair spun fire, brightly burning, we are not like the water or the wind anymore; but only ever just pure firekind.

People are always running quickly, hurrying along, pushing past each other and pulling and— and— so much, too much— please don't— cry— it hurts— people are just meant to _run _farfarfarther, fastfastfaster. People are always running somewhere. Elsewhere, they say. People will run in the wrong direction. People will run to the wrong eternity.

But that's what I say. And I am a liar, at times, even unintentionally.

I have not found my way to where I am to go. I have slept deep sleep and have always woken up. I have dreams, of course, like all dreamers, nightmares in and out of focus, an untouchable quality to these _running_ things. Dreams of hearing angels farther than I am. Faster than I am.

I am another phoenix, a soaring call of rage and anger and mourning. A desperate one who will eventually fall apart and emerge again from my sins. Burning soft, then loud, then quiet and silent in my own fire. In our own fire.

This is an island surrounded by whirlpools and water.

It is called as such.

.

.

.

_She is three when thoughts return. _

_Small, simple observations about her surroundings. Small, simple. Things she had learnt, things she knew already. There were no questions._

There were no questions_._

_Her lips moved, timidly. _

_..._

_Nothing was said. (There-were-no-questions.)_

_._

_._

_._

潮。The word for tide. In an olden language, you would call it "_shio_". It has three characters, one for water, one for grass, and one for moon.

And, isn't that strange? That we call ourselves one with water, one with grass, one with moon? When our blood is ink and cinder. When our feet hit soft sand and smooth stone. When our souls and hearts resonate with fire and suns and stars.

We are naive, you whisper, running forward with no thought and no pause. But there is no use to ponder over life, no use to sit, hemming and hawing your days away. Time does not await, like space does, and running across is all we will think of. Practical, we would whisper, if we were like you.

Our island has found power in capturing sight and catching language to command. We may tell it to twist and leap. We may tell it to burn and drown. We have masks, oh-so-countless, and they are etched and carved with the lines of death itself, of reality.

(U-zu-shi-o, after U-zu-ma-ki. Spiralling, spinning, circling tides, running and running, for-eh-ver-more.)

We are crueler than you'd think.

.

.

.

May glass shatter before your eyes.

And she says:

"I'm sorry."

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.

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><p>[<strong>prologue 00: end.<strong>]

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><p>*Wrong in the last line, is in the sense that she's just different. Clarification, because it's pretty vague. (first paragraph)<p>

**chapter title clarification**: The window is the proverbial wall between life and death and life. It also refers to reading the animanga, as we see the happenings but are detached from it. There's also a literal meaning that will be addressed later, along with other euphemisms.

**endnotes**: So, there will be other OCs since the Warring States Era has almost nothing to work with in Uzushiogakure other than Mito, who also doesn't have enough characterization to express her without variation. (Kishimoto makes me _cry_. _So much_.) This is not a traditional self-insert genre, rather, it's more of a same dimension story. It's not even a random reincarnation; it's deliberate, and whether this is canon compliant or not is up for debate until about...chapter ten? Also, I wanted to publish this on 12/13/14, which is today, so that's why it may seem kind of rushed along. Sorry! **  
>question<strong>: So first or third person? So far I'm alternating back and forth, but it might be annoying? Mn.  
><strong>teaser<strong>: ~beyond the mirror's edge: "...again and again and again. She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next...been here before, a long long time ago."


	2. 01: Beyond the Mirror's Edge

**warnings**: Overload of imagery, probably crowded format, angst, probable ruining of Japanese culture, inevitable canon divergence, possible OoCness, possible non-AU, still slightly AU in a way, use of OCs, artistic license abuse, etc. **  
><strong>**summary**: Why was it always so hard to cry, to die, to say, just once, "I'm sorry." It doesn't feel right, it isn't what she wants to say, but there isn't anything else other than apologies and what happens after. "Just stop," she cries, the tears mixing with the bitter rain, "Please, stop holding me down and let me free." She is the leaf of red fallen into waters, and she is drowning deeper where there is no ground.  
><strong>chapter summary<strong>: The swell of death is what she escapes from, gasping, with the slightest recollections in her mind.

**notes**: Added a little more text to the previous chapter. And so many apologies for the lateness. I'm really really really sorry. Reality is just...well. Also, I was editing quite a bit, and rewriting, and just...I'm really sorry. Otherwise, I hope you'll enjoy this! Thank you for keeping with this if you still are~! R&R? ^^ ...If anyone is still reading anymore. I shall feed you all this way overdue chapter as a better apology but I'mreallysorry.

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><p>From Somewhere | <strong>01: Beyond the Mirror's Edge<strong> | Naruto & Naruto Shippuden © Masashi Kishimoto

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><p>...<p>

「プロローグ」  
>"Prologue"<br>((_beyond the mirror's edge_))

...

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.

.

**A**nd when you look up into the sun, my dear, doesn't the glare hurt your eyes? After all, light is always too bright for you. How long will you stare into those fires having fun, before you decide to defeat nine of its brothers and sisters? You nock an arrow on your olden bow. The stars have come closer and closer, and you are burning brilliant like they are. Isn't that better?

But you are selfish, and you nock an arrow on your broken bow. Ten angels, and your arrow is patchwork made of the glass and stone under your feet, shattered brick and steel, melted wood and rock. Mortal things against the immortal streaks you cannot see anymore. Magic gifted to you. The presence is simply too strong for you, and yet you are a fool. _That_ is wrong, you cry, for it is ruining the world. But you cannot see, nothing at all, not even the slightest understanding of these suns who don't want to part. But you are a fool, and fools do what they will.

(Better than the rest of us, who have died. Better than the rest of us, who think and think and think and never do.)

Your name is forgotten in this time. Your society is lost forever. This is the apocalypse, for the dark species on the shadowed planet called Earth. Even now, when you look down, if you look and see, you will see your bone burning and blood boil. But you do not look. That would break you, would it not? To know that you are so close to death, to know your people are going-going-goi...

You nock an arrow on your not-quite bow.

These suns stare at it in mild curiosity. You wish, and wish, and wish upon thousands of shooting stars. The ten that are coming down down down.

This arrow is dark with desire. You throw it at these things, so much greater than you are. They stare at it in curiosity, for how will it strike them down? It comes closer, closer, closer. This arrow is dark with desire, and they cannot understand the shadow behind you. Humanity is a monster that wants to be a hero, and survival means that you cannot lie anymore. You are sinners, and they cannot understand you as you cannot understand them.

The arrow hits a still, still star. You nock another. There is a growing sense of surprise, of hope, of selfish, malice. Of pride and ego. You nock another and another and another, until the sky is a target and you shoot blind. Shots in the dark that still extinguish and douse and ruin the flame.

How easily you have forgotten, that you are a sharp blade that will not stop cutting. You have another arrow, but you do not fire. That star is still so very bright, but they have stopped and they are waiting. You are an evil creature, and your sin walks away. You walk around and around and around the light, ever so slowly, and no matter how much you deny it you are waiting too.

So, then.

—and when you look up into the sun, my dear, doesn't the glare hurt your eyes?

The sun cries, and cries, and cries, and the world is happy and bright as water flows and things grow, but it will never be as bright as the nine shot down stars and the one that is spared.

Spared, wont they say, and it's all so _funny_, so _silly_, I can't stop laughing.

.

.

.

She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next, and it's in absolute weariness that she lifts up her left hand, trying to block out the light of the morning that comes through her windows and makes her unbearably warm in its sight. A ringing silence is in her ears, and though she tries to open her mouth to break it, she stops.

"...Hello?" she asks. Her voice is strange, a soft, shaky tone to it. She feels as if she's been here before, a long long time ago.

There is no answer. She is on her stomach, curled in the covers and resembling a sushi roll as she clutches at the white pillows for dear life. She turns her head away from the daylight, shifts around for moments upon moments, and then closes her eyes, humming a song that eventually fades into the air and sky.

She cannot sleep well. Annoyed, she rolls onto her side and sits up, still facing away from the window. "God," she whispers to herself, buries her face in a hand, and pushes herself off the warm, comfortable bed. Immediately she hisses as her bare feet touch the cold, cold wooden floor, but she stands up and looks around the room, still in half-sleep.

A mirror is propped onto the wall, and she touches it's surface, staring, because.

The door slams open, suddenly, surprising her and making her grip the edge of a table, eyes wide. A girl peeks inside, grinning. "Sazanami-hime?"

She does not speak. The other girl sighs, and speaks reproachfully, "Fine, fine, Sumi-sama. Now, come on, the sundial is only at the twenty three four line, and everyone else is going to run off without you."

"W-wait!" she says, but the girl is evidently ignorant of her protests.

She pulls her by the wrist, footsteps loud in the hallway as she drags her outside into startlingly bright radiance, and the faint echo of the sea at the back of her head. "You suggested it," the other muses, "So, why wait?" There is a pause, and then she adds, slightly out of breath, "No running off screaming because of the sunshine."

She finds her head spinning, feet in pain from running over hot stone and wet blades of grass and cutting rocks. "I...what's my name?"

"Sumi, I assume," comes the dry response. "I'm Kasumi—" she inhales sharply again, swerving around a willow in surprise after turning back around from answering her, "—It's not even that early in the morning, you can go cry into the ocean about your pain afterwards when I'm not there. The number of times I have had to tell you what your favourite colour was..._trust exercises and friendship building my_..." Kasumi mutters underneath her breath.

"What was that?" she questions, and Kasumi laughs awkwardly.

"You're the ohime-sama. You probably shouldn't learn...when you're older."

Sumi looks around, and shrugs slightly, even though the other girl can't see. "Okay," she agrees distractedly, and pensive too, because wasn't she already old enough? With a more sardonic, hysterical tone: "I'll create another ocean with my great pain. Possibly flood your house. Hopefully. Maybe. We will drown in suffering together and you will experience all of the pain and you will _not be laughing_."

Her voice rises considerably. She has no idea where she is going, what is happening, and she really wants someone to explain why this is all so familiar and why she is maybe in the future or the past or wherever. Her footsteps slow considerably with Kasumi's, and though the other is not really dragging Sumi along with her she still grasps onto Sumi's wrist as the terrain blends into soft, not-quite-warm-yet sand and the backdrop of ocean crashing, lulling, louder than it was moments ago. Kasumi's laughter sounds like a dying hyena, exactly as undignified as that sounds, and Sumi takes a moment to inform her of this fact.

"Thank you for the ego boost," she beams. Sumi shrugs again, all desperation-surprise and yet tension leaving her joints as she runs along with the other.

Kasumi's hair billows out like a drama red curtain, as the girl herself raises her hand to wave at other weirdly coloured heads of blues and greens and blondes and purples and whites. "Ohime-sama has graced us with her presence," she quips, "And I believe that you guys might actually be ignoring me and I demand sacrifice to appease my hurt feelings. Tons of sacrifice," she amends when they get step closer on burning sand to see that the children are already playing tag with the rushing tides. "I will hug them tightly around the neck."

Sumi stays quiet, questions in her mind, but she allows herself to squint into the white light of the sun and into the horizon reaching beyond deep blue. She falters when Kasumi unclasps her hold around her hand, and moves off to join the others, unsure of what she is supposed to do.

What is this? she thinks, and then when freezing saltwater hits her in the face, she blinks and pales.

I...I am...

Where is...?

She bliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnniiiinnnnnnnnnninininnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnk.

.

.

.

She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next, and it's in absolute weariness that she lifts up her left hand, trying to block out the light of the morning that comes through her windows and makes her unbearably warm in its sight. A ringing silence is in her ears, and though she tries to open her mouth to break it, she stops.

"...Hello?" she asks. Her voice is strange, a soft, shaky tone to it. She feels as if she's been here before, a long long time ago.

She feels as if she's been here before, a long long time ago.

.

.

.

Again, and again, and again.

.

.

.

She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next, and it's in absolute weariness that she lifts up her left hand, trying to block out the light of the morning that comes through her windows and makes her unbearably warm in its sight. A ringing silence is in her ears, and though she tries to open her mouth to break it, she stops.

She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next, and it's in absolute weariness that she lifts up her left hand, trying to block out the light of the morning that comes through her windows and makes her unbearably warm in its sight. A ringing silence is in her ears, and though she tries to open her mouth to break it, she stops.

She comes to with the sound of bells, tolling one after the next, and it's iiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn...she stoppppp.

.

.

.

"...Hello?" she asks.

But her voice does not come out and

she feels as if she's been here before, a long long time ago.

.

.

.

She feels as if she's been here before, a long long time ago.

She feels as if she's been here before, a.

...She feels as if she's been here before.

She feels as if she's.

She feels.

As if.

I'm.

.

.

.

Sumi opens her eyes to the cold and dark and her unresponsive bodies and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to the falling falling rain and the quiet quiet river and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to fire-sky and sea-wind and and and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to a forest's earth and to a broken foot and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to fast spoken words and fire-crackle and paper upon paper upon paper and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to dark shadows and dying minds and glass swords and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to the taste of tea and the wet stones sharp at her feet and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to her bound hands and dry cheeks and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to running and skipping stones and waves at her toes and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to laughter and smiles and crying and anger and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to her father and her mother and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to sumi and sumi and sumi and ink and ink and ink and answering and _remembers _the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes to red and red and red and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes and remembers the tick-tick-tock-tock of her wrist mark.

Sumi opens her eyes.

Sumi remembers.

Tick-tick-tock-tock, it sings.

Tick-tick-tock-tock.

Tick-tick-tock-sa.

Tick-tick-sa-za.

Tick-sa-tock-mi.

Tick-tick-mi-za.

Tick-za-tock-na.

Tick-tock.

Sa-za-na-mi, it goes, and Sumi remembers.

Her eyes open and open and open and another looks back.

.

.

.

**B**ut for those of you who say that the nine suns shattered and became countless bright stars in the darkness, there is no happily ever after.

One great, lonely star is left behind, unable to even see any other than the cities below and clouds that swirl and the birds that never stay in the sky long enough. Nine small, separated pieces, scattered but together but shattered and broken.

Farther, and farther, and farther, and is it really any wonder—

Is it really any wonder that they're—

Any wonder that you and I—

This star is called sun, called life, and it shines bright and fiery, so very close to the world and so much bigger than it, too.

.

.

.

If you dare look into a rainbow created from the blue moon's light during a rainy night, you might get a glimpse of a world inside the clouds. Continue on if you must, after that, though the wind might cry low and high in your ears along with thunderclaps and the water may swirl below almost like a warning. When the new moon reflects on a clear pool and you wade through the water to the image of a shooting star passing across the dark lunar disc, you would be embraced by images and desires, all seven lucky words to speak out loud.

If you dare step onto there with the slightest ill intention, you would find yourself lost and you would be doomed a wanderer.

So is the power of blood and spirit, coaxed along many lines until its fire burns far beyond a century.

If you dare, really, to listen in to the whispers, if you were so without purpose, you would hear a name and another and another. Perhaps you will hear the right one. Perhaps not. Who knows what you wish to find, but I will say this: A butterfly lands onto still water, and ripples will form. Ripples will reach out, and waves will gather. Waves will move, faster and faster and faster, and an abyss shall be formed.

So they say.

If you dare, do not follow, for they are all lies and they are all truths.

It's all a myth, and won't you listen? For this particular legend?:

A girl, a boy, and a little flower.

A girl, a boy, and a little flower.

A girl a boy a little flower.

Agirlaboyalittlelittleflowerand.

A girl, a boy, and a little flower...

I do not believe I have the heart to shorten this so, for this is a long, long story. Let me think...

—Will meet only at the end and no sooner?

But then, this time, definitely. I have to say this first and nothing else.

This is how it goes:

In the beginning there was me, in the end there was you, but at the start of it all there is a girl and a boy and a little flower and a tomorrow that falls through.

After all, impossible things happen when your soul can control your world. And it was only a matter of time before time and space and death and life are claimed by sheer, human will. After all, impossible things happen when you use your imagination.

So, a ghost from a future and a ghost from a past and a ghost from the now.

This is the story of a girl and a boy and a little flower.

.

.

.

The crying-screaming-blinking sound comes out.

A dream shatters into three and back into two and then breaks into one.

.

.

.

* * *

><p>[<strong>prologue 01: end.<strong>]

* * *

><p>*First part is based on the Chinese legend that there once was ten suns and an archer. There are many different versions of them, and there are continuations of the myth, but I think I'd ruin their significance. So, you should go on a search engine if you want to know more, without me possibly plagiarizing from various websites!<br>*When Kasumi trails off at: "...trust exercises and friendship building my..." , the '...' are supposed to represent the fact that she says words that the character doesn't know. They're most likely more 'crude' for her to learn, but more on that later.

**chapter title clarification**: None. I'm afraid you'll have to think about it by yourself, haha. If I answer this will be full of spoilers.

**endnotes**: Thanks for reading! Please review about anything that needs correction? If it has to do with grammar, the prologue parts are going to be like short drabbles of thought that are probably meant to be written incorrect. Thank you all again! c: I'mstillreallysorryforthewait. The plot starts next chapter~!  
><strong>question<strong>: How many thought the SI was an Uzumaki? She's more or less distantly related instead, though.  
><strong>teaser<strong>: ~We All Fall Down: "..."I know," one says. "I remember," the other repeats. "I don't," the last one wonders. A patchwork of a soul, and sometimes, the other thinks quietly, the fixing needs mistakes. But then, one muses, this is the mistake. And two fall silent for one to be alive..."


End file.
